lexington laze


drunk as Bukowski he scribbles poetry
notes in his humid rooms barefoot and alone;
sex sounds from two doors down where the cinnamon
whore walked up twenty minutes ago all legs
and tits, flat fawn eyes made up and ambient
of cynical discontent . . . out the back door
green field criss-crossed with drainage ditches, robins
in the locust trees, a lone stray cat sets his
neighbors’ Pomeranians to frantic yelp
fests while they sit out on cheap white lawn chairs
and smoke generic cigarettes to the noise
of Saturday afternoon traffic a hundred
yards off on New Circle, Lexington border,
and summer southern city simmers lazy . . .

21 July 2012
david m pitchford

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